


Leave a Mark

by hapakitsune



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Light BDSM, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are both outsiders in Skyhold, both in self-imposed exile, and it has to be some strange twist of fate that puts their shops across the street from each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Mark

**Author's Note:**

> I was calling this "hipster inquisition" because it was 50% inspired by a shot of my first Inquisitor and Dorian looking like trash hipster biffles who get hammered at night and go out for kale shakes in the morning. The other 50% is inspired by that tumblr post that was like "imagine one of your OTP owning a tattoo parlor and the other owning a flower shop." I desperately want this out of my WIPs, so here, have it.

In a sick twist of fate, the Qunari flower shop opened across the street two months after Dorian opened his tattoo parlor. Dorian already wasn’t the most popular fellow in town, being one of a small minority of Tevinters in Skyhold and flagrantly showing off his magic ability by using it to create the most incredible tattoos anyone had ever seen. That was what he’d heard people say, anyway. He suspected the imagined danger was part of his allure.

Dorian spotted the Qunari across the street, his huge grey bulk at odds with the delicate green stalks and vivid blooms of the flowers standing in pots along the outside of his storefront. Dorian swore and ducked beneath the windowsill, as though the Qunari would be able to tell he was Tevinter from that distance. Maybe he could. Their people had been at war long enough. 

That afternoon, he spent an hour working on a back piece for a Dalish elf who had arrived in the city not long ago. The elf wanted a tree, its branches spreading across her shoulder-blades. It was detailed work, enough that Dorian had scheduled her with four appointments over the spread of two weeks. She was full of information about the upcoming ministerial election; she had seen Evelyn Trevelyan speak the day before, and she seemed like the real deal.

“Have you seen her?” the elf asked, trying to crane her neck to look back at Dorian. “She seems like it, you know? Not like most of the high and mighty political shits.”

“Please stay still,” Dorian said, gently turning her head back to face down.

In fact, Dorian had met Evelyn Trevelyan when he had visited her College of Mages for research shortly before her Harrowing. They had struck up a friendly acquaintance, and after she had passed her Harrowing, she had dragged him along with her other friends on a pub crawl that ended with her turning Dorian’s hair grey and Dorian setting her curtains on fire. All in all, a rather successful night. 

For the duration of his time there, she had made a point of seeking him out and spending time with him in the library. She seemed fascinated by Tevinter, and he was just as fascinated by her, the daughter of a noble family who had none of the pretensions he himself did, with an immense heart and an even larger intelligence. Shortly after he had departed her college for Tevinter, she had been instrumental in revealing the corruption of a number of politicians and nobles, including the Prime Minister. It had been quite a scandal, but she had emerged from it a hero, much beloved for her self-effacing manner and that lack of noble pretension Dorian himself had admired about her.

It did not particularly surprise him to find her at the center of the new ministerial elections, no doubt at the urging of the Divine’s advisors Cassandra and Leliana, even though he was sure she would deny any desire for power. He thought it was likely for the best that he did not call, since her campaign likely would only suffer from her friendship with a Tevinter mage, no matter that he was disowned and outcast. 

Eve, as it turned out, very much disagreed with that sentiment, which he discovered when she dropped by his shop unexpectedly about three months after he had settled in. She looked just as Dorian remembered: tall, slim, hair cut short with something of an undercut now, and a wry expression on her face.

“Dorian!” she said. “It is wonderful to see you again. You look well.”

“I look smashing, and so do you,” Dorian said, kissing her cheek. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I heard you had moved into town – don’t give me that look, you know I’m friends with Leliana – and I waited, quite patiently I might add, for you to give me a call, and nothing. So I took it upon myself to come find you.” 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Dorian said, kissing her hand in overdramatic apology. Eve swatted at his head. “But you see, I heard about your Prime Minister campaign.”

“Oh,” Eve said, looking sheepish. “That was all Cassandra and Leliana’s idea, I assure you – they plucked me straight out of my quiet life and decided yes, I was the woman for the job.”

“You are rather a hero,” Dorian said. “Exposing corruption in the government and all that rot, even if you are a mage. And your family is well-respected, and you are, ahem, spending time with a certain Antivan noble if what I hear is –”

“Maker’s breath, Dorian!” Eve said, laughing. “Do you have spies upon me as well?”

“In certain circles, your relationship is all anyone speaks of,” Dorian said, which was a mild exaggeration. But only a mild one. 

Eve’s expression sobered rather quickly. “That reminds me, I heard what happened with your father, or something of it, anyway. I’m so terribly sorry, Dorian.”

“It was bound to happen,” Dorian said brusquely. “It is just a shame that I will no longer be able to keep myself in the manner to which I have grown accustomed. Far less silk and gold in my apartment than I’d like.”

“You live above the shop?” she asked. 

“Eve, honestly, there is no need to worry about me. I have my books and I’m making a perfectly fine living tattooing people. Maybe they’re a bit perturbed by the lack of a tattoo gun, but when they see my fine work –”

“Dorian, you know that’s not why I’m worried,” Eve said. She squeezed his arm. “You’ll call if you need anything, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Dorian said, which was a lie. Eve was generous to a fault, which was her most irritating quality, and he felt he had used up all the generosity he deserved when she had nursed him through an endless number of beastly hangovers with the aid of kale shakes and judicious use of magic. He was saved from having to come up a new conversation topic when Eve’s phone rang. She gave him an apologetic, and he waved her on as she answered it, stepping toward the door to speak to the person on the other end. 

She looked well; the last time Dorian had seen her was a little after the matter of exposing Minister Lambert’s corruption and rooting out his cronies at parliament, which, to hear her tell it, had largely been on accident. Dorian knew, however, that Eve had dedicated herself to politics the moment she realized how unjust the world was. That was the kind of woman she was. 

Eve snapped her phone shut with a sigh and returned to him. “I think Cassandra is going to murder Varric. Varric Tethras, the journalist,” she added at Dorian’s questioning look. “She likes him, I’m sure of it, but he enjoys antagonizing her and she hates that she’s grown fond of it. Ah, well. I suppose I should go. But it was lovely seeing you, and I shall send anyone in need of ink here.” She paused, looking out the window, and said, “Maker, is that a Qunari? Running a flower shop?”

“Oh, you’ve spotted that too?” Dorian asked sourly. “I’m expecting to be murdered in my sleep any day now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure he won’t murder you. But he is rather large, isn’t he?” Eve looked at her phone again and muttered something under her breath. “I must dash. If you’re worried about your new neighbor stabbing you in your sleep, perhaps you should go make his acquaintance so he might at least feel guilty about it.”

“How would that make him feel _guilty_?” Dorian demanded, but Eve was already halfway out the door, throwing on her coat and a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat decorated with flowers. Were she anyone else, she would look a parody of an Orlesian socialite; but instead she looked whimsical and strangely idealistic. 

Dorian knew he should go say hello the Qunari, at the very least. He had made a point of meeting all of his neighbors when he had moved in so that they wouldn’t be inclined to spread stories about him just because they hadn’t met. He was reluctant to do so, but Eve had a talent for making him feel guilty about things he should do, so he closed up shop for a few minutes and went across the street to make his introductions. 

The Qunari was nowhere to be seen, somehow having vanished between Eve noticing him and Dorian leaving his shop. There was a young man in the florist’s shop, however, handsome, high cheekboned with tan skin and dark red hair in haircut almost identical to Eve’s. Dorian paused at the door, wondering if he should come back; but no, he had resolved to stop by and here he was, stopping by. He opened the door and winced at the loud jangling of the bell. 

The young man behind the counter smirked when he saw Dorian and greeted him in Tevene. Dorian hesitated, then returned the greeting, adding, “I’m Dorian Pavus. I own the tattoo shop across the road.”

“I know, I’ve seen you around.” The young man held out his hand for a shake. “Krem Aclassi.” 

“I’m surprised to meet another Tevinter here,” Dorian said. “I thought the store owner was a Qunari.”

“He is,” Krem said. “He isn’t the discriminating sort, though.”

“So you’re saying he won’t take it in his head to attack the Tevinter mage across the street?”

“That depends,” said a deep voice, low enough that Dorian could feel it in his toes. “You planning on summoning any demons or sacrificing any virgins?”

“I’d have to find a virgin first,” Dorian said, turning around slowly. He looked up – and up – and up into the amused face of the one-eyed Qunari. Up close, it was easier to see the multitude of scars, as well as the pale silvery color of his remaining eye. He needed a shave, which wasn’t a thought Dorian was used to applying to Qunari. And he loomed. There was no other word for it; Dorian wasn’t even sure if he could help it. He was at least a full head taller than Dorian, not even counting the horns, and Dorian was not a particularly small man. 

He was also completely bare-chested, which had the side effect of displaying quite a few impressive muscles. Dorian tried to remember what he had been saying. 

“I’d have to search far and wide,” he said, though he knew his pause had been obvious from the way Krem was grinning, “because I certainly don’t know any.”

“Chief doesn’t know any either,” Krem said, smirk audible in his voice. 

“Is that your name?” Dorian asked. “Chief?”

“I’m The Iron Bull,” the Qunari said. “I prefer the definite article.”

“But most people ignore it,” Krem said. “You wouldn’t think a Qunari would be pretentious, but there it is.”

“Fuck you,” The Iron Bull said amiably. “So what can I do for you?”

“I was just coming by to introduce myself,” Dorian said. “Dorian Pavus. I own the shop across the road.”

“Tattoos, huh?” The Iron Bull rubbed his chest thoughtfully. “Been thinking of getting myself some ink. Maybe a big picture from that Tevinter sex book, what’s it called –”

“Thank you, but I do rather more interesting work that dirty pictures,” Dorian said. 

“Yeah? Have any _samples_ I could take a look at?” The Iron Bull didn’t exactly leer, but his tone managed to convey one nevertheless.

Sighing, Dorian shrugged off his coat and held out his left arm for The Iron Bull to see the intricate, tight lines of color that wound up his bicep and down toward his forearm. The first piece of the sleeve had come in the wake of his parents’ first attempt to cure him of his sexuality; the start of a dark forest, its branches creeping up over the curve of his shoulder. Its roots morphed into the Skyhold skyline, added when he had first arrived, and from there came the birds, his latest additions, only outlines right now, flying down toward his wrist. 

The Iron Bull took his hand delicately, hardly touching him at all, but it was enough that Dorian had to repress a shiver. The Iron Bull ran a finger down Dorian’s arm, examining the art closely before releasing him. He didn’t step back. 

“Fine work,” he said. “Suits you.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said, shrugging his jacket back on. It was warmer in The Iron Bull’s shop than it was outside, but he still had not adjusted to the cooler temperatures of the south. “Interested?”

“Oh, he’s interested,” Krem muttered. When Dorian gave him a sharp look, Krem smiled innocently. 

“Yeah,” The Iron Bull said, either not noticing or not caring about his employee’s casual insubordination. “Let’s make an appointment.”

“Now?” Dorian asked, startled. 

“You’re here, aren’t you? That must mean nothing too exciting is going on right now.” The Iron Bull plucked a flower from behind him – a sea lily, if Dorian recognized it correctly – and held it out. “What about this?”

“A flower?”

“For my tattoo.” The Iron Bull was grinning, like he knew how ridiculous he sounded. 

“Wouldn’t that ruin your whole aesthetic?” Dorian asked acidly. “This wild man, bare-chested look?”

“I run a flower shop,” The Iron Bull pointed out. “I think my street cred is tarnished enough.”

“Still, he has a point, Chief,” Krem said. “Imagine if the rest of the crew saw you with a big flower right above your ass. What would they say?”

“Crew?” Dorian asked, mouth getting ahead of him. 

“Used run a mercenary crew,” The Iron Bull said. “But the world’s calmed down a bit. Heard Skyhold was the place to be, so here we are.”

“The rest of the crew has jobs all over,” Krem added. “You should come out with us one night. I bet you’ve found all the good bars in town, if you’re any kind of Tevinter.”

“I’m not, that’s why I’m here.” Dorian bit his tongue and reminded himself that he was trying to be friendly. “But I suppose that could be mildly fun.”

“Hold down the shop, Krem,” The Iron Bull said. “I’m going to see about getting myself some tattoos.”

The Iron Bull seemed somehow even larger inside Dorian’s shop. Maybe it was the way he hunched over the book of designs Dorian gave him for inspiration, like he was trying to contain his bulk. Dorian found himself wishing he employed anyone else just to fill the silence while The Iron Bull flipped pages and occasionally grunted thoughtfully. He went through his appointment book, just to have something to do, but kept looking up to see what The Iron Bull was doing. 

Tattoos had been something of a whim for Dorian when he was younger, a way to make extra cash after he fell out with his father. When he had left Tevinter and headed south, it had been easier to make his money burning patterns into people’s skin than trying to find Ferelden parents willing to let a magister – never mind that he _wasn’t_ one – teach their precious child simple magic. After he’d arrived in Skyhold, he had toyed with the idea of approaching the college for a position, but he loved the freedom of managing his own hours and the creativity of creating tattoos. And he could pursue his own academic interests in his spare time regardless. He had even had an article published the previous month.

He had been happy enough. He hoped The Iron Bull wouldn’t make him leave. 

“What do you think about this?” The Iron Bull asked, tapping a picture toward the back of the book. Dorian stood and came to see what he had chosen. It was an armband design, thick and heavy lines tracing out thorns. 

“A bit cliché, don’t you think?” Dorian asked. “If it’s an armband you want, I’m sure I could find something in one of my books that was suitably Qunari.”

“Nothing Qunari,” The Iron Bull said. He sounded sad, and Dorian glanced up to see The Iron Bull looking at his hands. 

“Something abstract, then,” Dorian said. “Why don’t I mock some ideas up for you tonight and you can come back tomorrow? Anything in particular you would like?”

“Swords,” The Iron Bull said, which just figured. 

“Ah yes,” Dorian said. “Compensating?”

“Want to find out?” The Iron Bull asked. Dorian shuddered and urged The Iron Bull out of his shop, insisting that he had to close. As soon as The Iron Bull was safely back in his flower shop, far away from Dorian, Dorian retreated upstairs and spent over an hour pulling out books until he found one with Qunari designs. He thought that he could design something similar to the patterns of the vitaar Qunari applied to their skin in battle to harden it or poison it or immunize it to cold.

He spent most of his evening designing several options for The Iron Bull. He had to think large; if The Iron Bull wanted it as an armband, it would have to look good spread out over those extensive muscles. He fell asleep a little after midnight, head pillowed on his sketchbook, and woke around three in the morning to stumble to his bed and fall back to sleep until his alarm clock woke him at ten. 

The Iron Bull arrived for his appointment at one in the afternoon. Dorian settled the sketchbook in front of him and waited while The Iron Bull squinted his eye at the designs thoughtfully. 

“This looks like a vitaar,” The Iron Bull said at last. “I thought I said no Qunari shit.”

“It _looks_ like a vitaar,” Dorian said patiently. “I know what you said, but I thought perhaps a more abstract design inspired by Qunari vitaar. I added some swords, since you asked.” He turned the page so The Iron Bull might see and brushed the inside of his wrist by accident. Dorian just managed not to yank his hand back, startled by the heat of The Iron Bull’s skin, its softness. 

“Cool,” The Iron Bull said after a moment. He was watching Dorian, grey eye tracking his face. “So how much will it be, pretty boy?”

Dorian named a sum that was rather high. The Iron Bull’s mouth twitched like he knew that was the case, but he didn’t argue, just pulled the coins from a bag attached to his belt and poured them into Dorian’s hand. Dorian felt a little lightheaded at all the gold; he hadn’t had this much money to his name since his father had disowned him, and it was a little intoxicating to realize he could afford to buy the more expensive shampoo and the quinoa he liked to eat. He did his best to hide how happy it made him, making a point of counting the coins before stowing them in his safe. The Iron Bull observed it all with a smirk, as though he knew exactly what Dorian was doing.

“All right,” Dorian said, once his newfound riches were safely stored away. “Shall we get started?”

The Iron Bull smiled at Dorian’s staff, asked, “Do you polish that often?” and then went very still when Dorian actually touched its tip to his skin. Dorian decided not to think too hard about that and instead went to work imprinting the complicated design on The Iron Bull’s skin. 

The tattoo took two sittings, and it would have taken four if The Iron Bull hadn’t been a Qunari with their disturbing tendency to shrug off searing pain (literally, in this case) as though it were nothing more than a fly landing on them. They didn’t talk much, except for The Iron Bull asking what exactly Dorian was doing to him and how, and the occasional random argument about Tevinter versus Seheron. 

When he was finished, Dorian gave The Iron Bull a booklet with aftercare instructions that he was sure he would ignore and sent him off back to his flower shop. The Iron Bull looked as though he wanted to say something before he left, but he refrained, and Dorian was left much richer and feeling oddly as though he had singlehandedly improved Tevinter-Qunari relations, Krem nonwithstanding.

 

The problem with being friends with Eve was that she invariably found a way to bring Dorian into her madness, which was how, three weeks after he had given The Iron Bull his tattoo, he found himself at a fundraising event in the Financial District, sucking down cocktails and trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the people he might know. It was complicated, being the black sheep of an aristocratic family. 

It helped that most people seemed to instinctively recognize him as either a mage or a Tevinter, despite the fact that he, like everyone else, had been asked to leave his staff at the entrance, and were thus avoiding him. Further down the bar, he saw Cullen Rutherford trying the same tactics as him to much less success; Rutherford’s good-looks and position as head of Eve’s security forces made him something of a prime target for those looking for a quick but beneficial tumble. Cassandra had squirreled away in the corner with a wine glass, and that boy Cole who Eve insisted was useful but who Dorian thought was just a bit odd was sitting further down examining a bottle of rum that the bartender held out to him. 

He felt someone settle in on his right side, and he was about to scoot over a bit to avoid any sort of contact when The Iron Bull’s deep, familiar voice rolled over him like a wave: “Didn’t know you were interested in politics.”

Dorian turned to look at The Iron Bull. He had to tilt his head back rather farther than he remembered. “I have to say your southern politics are all rather more polite than what I’m used to in Tevinter, but I’ve been getting used to it.”

“It isn’t Orlais,” The Iron Bull pointed out. “Now there’s some backstabbing politics – literally, in most cases.”

“Yes, here everyone is on their best behavior.” Dorian sipped at his drink. “Which is good for Eve, I suppose, but it does make for less interesting television.”

“And less work for me,” The Iron Bull said. “I can’t tell you how many times I was hired to snuff out some masked courtier in Val Royeaux. Easy money.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Dorian asked dryly. “To ‘snuff out’ Eve?”

The Iron Bull laughed. “Hell no! I like Trevelyan; she’s got a good head on her shoulders. No, I’m here because we did the flowers.” He patted the – rather lovely – arrangement near his hand fondly. 

“Ah.” Dorian eyed The Iron Bull curiously. He was, as usual, shirtless, but he had what looked like a slightly less scuffed harness and his eyepatch had been swapped out for one that gleamed in the dim light. “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.”

The Iron Bull grinned and flexed. “Got to show off the goods, you know. Your tattoo has gotten quite a few compliments for me.”

“I suppose it helps you so rarely wear a shirt,” Dorian said acidly. 

“If fashion designers ever deign to create a shirt that gets over these horns, I still wouldn’t wear one,” The Iron Bull said, smirking. “I like the feel of the air on my skin.”

“I think you like showing off your big muscles,” Dorian mumbled into his Cosmo. Normally, he drank martinis, gin for preference, but he was five drinks in and inclined to be self-indulgent. “Your big strong muscles, ready for conquest.”

“Ah, yes,” The Iron Bull said, voice dropping to a low purr. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to rip that silk shirt from you and lay you bare for me to conquer.”

Dorian chokes on his drink and spends a minute hacking before gasping out, “ _Maker_.” 

“Did I misread that?” The Iron Bull asked, an uncharacteristic note of worry in his voice. 

“I – I’m going to go talk to Eve, I haven’t said hello all evening,” Dorian said, sliding from the stool as quickly as he could, hoping the dim light would hide what an effect The Iron Bull’s words had on him. He tossed back the rest of his drink and slipped away through the crowd to where Eve stood with Josephine on her arm, the two of them charming everyone who came their way. Eve beamed when she saw him and drew him in close to her side so she could whisper in his ear about all the new scandalous gossip she had learned. Over her shoulder, Dorian caught Blackwall, Eve’s bodyguard, giving him the stink-eye. He smiled benevolently and turned his attention back to Eve. 

“You look lovely,” he told her. “And you too, of course, Miss Montilyet.” 

“Dorian, please,” Josephine said. “We may not know each other well, but you can certainly call me by my given name.”

“You’ve met?” Eve asked eagerly, looking between them. “How?”

“Let’s see,” Josephine said, tapping her chin. “Minrathous?”

“Yes, at that dreadful dinner party,” Dorian said. “Lord Herbert was poisoned during the l’entrée, and one of the Antivan nobles challenged Magister Valerius to a duel. Quite messy, it was.”

“Yes,” Josephine said fondly. “Such interesting times we have lived in.”

Lady Vivienne chose that moment to make her presence known, swooping in upon them like the drama queen she secretly was – and Dorian knew drama. She sniffed at Dorian’s presence, clearly disapproving, before greeting Eve with the kind of icy reserve she always used when talking to people of power she didn’t precisely agree with. Eve, naturally, was incredibly polite, thanking her for her contributions to the campaign and for the lovely party. Vivienne thawed at that and was slightly more friendly, though she did keep giving Dorian skeptical glances. Alas, one couldn’t have everything. 

Dorian excused himself from their conversation, hoping another drink would drown out the memory of The Iron Bull’s low voice promising to _conquer him._ He sat next to a dwarf who had a notepad out and a bald elf who looked like a total hippie, and ordered himself a glass of Antivan Fire, which he knew from experience was guaranteed to get him home pleasantly hammered and might even wipe out The Iron Bull from his mind altogether. 

“Saw you talking with Trevelyan,” the dwarf said. “You know her?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes at the dwarf, who was unusually beardless and had a number of ear piercings that Dorian rather fancied. “Who’s asking?”

The dwarf grinned. “Varric Tethras,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Novelist, journalist, occasional poet. Covering the election for the _Free Marches Press_ , among others.”

Dorian shook the offered hand and smiled. “No comment,” he said firmly. “Off the record, I’m Dorian Pavus.”

“Tevinter, eh?” Varric asked, crooking an eyebrow. “Interesting. Didn’t know Trevelyan knew anyone from those parts.”

“I think you’d be surprised who Eve knows,” Dorian said, and then cursed himself for using her first name. Varric’s eyes lit up, but he didn’t write anything down, which was a small mercy. 

“I know,” Varric said. “I’ve been talking to Chuckles over there for the last half hour.” He jerked his thumb toward the elf, who was contemplating what looked like a glass of water with distaste. “Let me tell you, he is a _weird_ one.”

“I can hear you, Varric,” the elf said. 

Varric gave Dorian a conspiratorial grin, which Dorian found himself involuntarily returning. He immediately scowled and downed his drink in one go. 

“Well, I must be off,” he said. “Lovely meeting you both. Ta!”

“See you later, Dorian Pavus!” Varric called after him. Dorian immediately wondered why he had given his real name and cursed himself all the way back home. 

 

He awoke the next morning to a blistering hangover and the sound of someone moving around his apartment. He fumbled for his staff and was about to destroy whoever had broken into his home when Eve’s voice said, “Dorian! It’s only me.”

She emerged into his room, carrying a glass of familiarly green liquid. “Varric told me you ordered Antivan Fire, so I thought I’d check up on you,” she said, sitting at the end of his bed and holding out the glass. 

“Thank you,” Dorian said, sitting up. “How was the rest of the night?”

Eve told him, and he did his best to listen and process what she was telling him without throwing up or passing out. When the worst of his nausea had passed, he drank the smoothie she had so kindly prepared and was about to suggest they go out for lunch when they heard his shop bell ring. 

They looked at each other in confusion. “Did you have any appointments today?” Eve asked. 

“Not that I recall,” Dorian said. He dragged himself up, took his silken dressrobe from the wardrobe – his one true extravagance these days, aside from wine – and went downstairs to see who it was. 

It was, in fact, a squirrely looking Dalish elf with a giant bouquet in her hands. She thrust it out to him, said, “Dorian Pavus?” and when he affirmed his identity, she more or less dropped the vase into his hands and took off, muttering how the boss _totally owed her_. Eve, who had come down the stairs after him, started laughing when she saw just how large the arrangement was. Dorian did his best to glare around the flora at her. 

“Let me help you with those,” she said when she finally stopped laughing. She flicked her hands and the vase floated out of Dorian’s hands to land gracefully on the counter. One day, Dorian really would stop being amazed by Eve. “Goodness, who are they from?”

“Is there a card?” Dorian asked. 

Eve rooted around amongst the bright blue and purple blooms. “Ah! It’s from Bull. I thought I recognized his work.”

“‘Bull’?” 

“He said I could call him that,” Eve said distractedly, still reading the card. “My goodness.”

“What?” Dorian asked, praying The Iron Bull hadn’t done something like write an obscene poem. Did Qunari write poetry? 

“Nothing,” Eve said, putting the note back. She leaned in to sniff the bouquet. “Dorian, I do believe he likes you.”

“And you are an incurable romantic,” Dorian said, sitting down on the other side of the counter. “Just because you are head-over-heels for _your_ gentlewoman –”

“I am indeed,” Eve agreed, beaming obnoxiously.

“—doesn’t mean I am inclined to be your fresh new experiment so you may vicariously experience the thrill of new love.” Dorian buried his head in his hands. “Surely you understand, given the situation with my father, why I am reluctant to enter into a relationship at the moment.”

Eve sat down on the edge of the chair and kicked her legs idly. “You have to understand, my only other options are Cassandra and Varric, and Cullen and that lovely mage girl he says he didn’t have a crush on back in school, and none of them are being particularly cooperative at the moment.”

“What about Leliana?”

“I am, quite honestly, far too frightened of Leliana to dare interfere in her love life.” Eve reached out to stroke his hair. She was quite lucky that he adored her; no one else would have survived that. “Why are you so resistant to the idea? He seems to be trying, if these flowers are any indication.”

“He’s crude, irritating, far too large to be allowed, and a Qunari to boot,” Dorian said flatly. “Is that not reason enough?”

“I was under the impression you liked them large,” Eve said innocently. Dorian resolved to never tell her anything ever again. 

“Don’t you have some mad schemes to further?” Dorian asked. “Begone, and let me get back to my work.”

“All right.” Eve slid from her perch and rested a hand on his shoulder, just above where his dressing gown covered. Her hands, as usual, were ice cold, but Dorian was used to it by now and did not flinch. “Do me a favor?”

“What, dearest?”

“At least read the note he sent along with the flowers.” Eve kissed his head fondly. “For a Qunari, he is surprisingly eloquent.”

Eve left a little later, having made herself coffee in Dorian’s temperamental machine and stolen one of his travel mugs. Dorian contemplated holding that against her, but he did, after all, like her. It was shameful, the things he let her get away with. 

He didn’t read the note until he had finished the smoothie she had brought for him, and then he steeled himself, lifting the card between two fingers to see what The Iron Bull could have said to impress Eve. The writing on the front, spelling out his name, was not particularly elegant, but it was strong and steady. Dorian hated that he could assign those traits to _writing_ , but it was impossible to deny. He flipped the card over. 

_Dorian –_

_My apologies for my words at Trevelyan’s party. I appear to have misinterpreted the situation and made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intent. It was meant as a compliment, or a proposal, one that still stands._

_You know where to find me._

_The Iron Bull_

__That cursed man! Dorian was tempted to set the card on fire so he didn’t have to look at it, but he resisted the urge, sliding it back into its holder. He glanced out the window across the street and saw the familiar red head of Krem through the glass. He should, he knew, thank The Iron Bull for the flowers. But that could wait, he thought, until his headache had gone away. If only he had paid more attention to healing magics in school.

He ate lunch, dithered around the shop, rearranged all of his books, and read The Iron Bull’s note five more times before he finally made himself cross the street. Krem was reading when Dorian came in, a book that looked suspiciously like that awful romance series _Swords and Shields_. He didn’t even look embarrassed when he saw Dorian peering at the cover, just smiled. 

“Looking for the chief?” he asked. “He’s out back in the greenhouse.”

“Greenhouse?” Dorian asked. 

“What, you thought these beauties just grew naturally?” Krem patted the dawn lotus in the water pot beside him. “Chief’s pretty good with a watering can.”

“Now that I have to see,” Dorian said. 

Krem directed him out to the back, and Dorian stepped out into a riotous explosion of color and life. He had never been one for nature – born and bred in cities, he was, and not fond of wildlife – but he had to admit it was beautiful, flowers of all colors and sizes filling the space between the back of the building and the glass structure that had to be the greenhouse. He carefully avoided treading on any of the stems that drooped over the stone path and opened the door to the greenhouse, stepping inside with a gasp of relief. 

It was warm inside; warm like Tevinter. There were few things Dorian truly missed from his homeland, but the weather was certainly one. He had heard that Ferelden was dreadfully cold, but he hadn’t truly understood until his first winter, when he abruptly learned that he would need a lot more furs to keep him warm until spring finally came. The greenhouse, though, was warm and humid. It felt like summer in Qarinus, save for the lack of breeze, and he had to take a moment to breathe it in. 

“Dorian!” came The Iron Bull’s voice. Dorian turned and saw him emerging from the near-forest, a pair of gardening shears in one hand. “I can call you Dorian, right?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Much better than Master Pavus.” 

“Does anyone call you that?” The Iron Bull asked. 

“Not since I left Tevinter.” Dorian gazed around, let his fingers linger on the petals of an embrium flower. “This is extraordinary.”

“It took a lot of work,” The Iron Bull said. He patted the sapling beside him fondly. “I guess you got my message.”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “I wanted to – thank you. It was a kind thought. And I took no offense.”

“Really?” The Iron Bull asked, raising his eyebrow. “You almost spit your drink across the bar.”

“You startled me!” Dorian said. “In Tevinter, to say such a thing to another man so openly would likely have you imprisoned if you’re lucky, or put through –” He stopped himself from finishing the thought. The Iron Bull didn’t need to know about that, and Dorian was loathe to relive the experience. “In any event, I appreciate the apology, The Iron Bull.” 

“You’re welcome,” The Iron Bull said. “You can call me Bull, if you want.” 

“I – all right, thank you, Bull.” Dorian knew he should go back to his shop now, but instead he lingered, tucking his hands against his sides. “Did you enjoy the party? It doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Bull said. “Madame Vivienne is quite the lady. Eve is lucky to have her on her side.” He shifted, gaze moving to a spot over Dorian's shoulder.

Dorian eyed Bull, eyebrows going up. “You’re scared of her.”

“No, I’m not,” Bull said, crossing his arms. 

“You’re _terrified_ of her,” Dorian said gleefully. “The Iron Bull, terrified by a dainty mage.”

“There is nothing dainty about her,” Bull said. “And I’m sure you know that.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Dorian said. “Anyway. I suppose I’ll see you around, now that we share friends as well as a street.”

“Sure,” Bull said. “You’ll see me.” He smiled, almost a leer. Dorian shouldn’t have been pleased by that, by how flattering it was to be desired in that way, but he was only so strong. 

 

He thought about it, of course. In the year or so he had been living outside the influence of his parents, he had not had much opportunity to meet new lovers, nor, it had to be said, much inclination. He still had scars from where the magister had cut him, squeezing out blood for the ritual that would, he promised, turn Dorian from a sexual deviant into an obedient son who would marry any poor wretch his parents dragged before him. Frankly, it would have been easier for his parents to just have another child. 

In his spare time, Dorian worked to cover up the marks with tattoos. It was tedious and time consuming work, since much of it he had to do while craning his neck to look at his back in the mirror. The ones on his arms had been the first to go, hidden beneath the sleeve he had given himself. It was the ones across his shoulder blades, down his spine, that gave him the most trouble. He was doing just that when he heard something break in the alley behind his apartment. He paused, listening for the sound of a cat or a nug. Instead, he heard someone say, “Shite!” and another crash before the sound of someone scrabbling at his back door.

Dorian took his staff and crept down the back stairs, peering out the magically reinforced windows to the alley below, where he could see the pale top of the thief’s head. He tapped his staff against the floor and called forth a tiny ball of flame to light his way. He threw open the back door and said in his loudest, most imperious voice, “What in Thedas do you think you’re doing?”

The thief leapt back and yelped, “Shite!” She – and the thief was a she, Dorian saw, an elf with appallingly cut blonde hair and a horribly plaid yellow shirt. “Andraste’s tits, who you think you are, sneaking around like that?”

“Who am _I_?” Dorian asked in disbelief. “I’m the owner of this shop. Who are you? And what are you doing?”

“None of your business, that’s who,” said the thief. “And I was just looking, okay?”

“A bit late for ‘looking,’ isn’t it?” Dorian said dryly. “Are you here for a tattoo? A nice tree or something?”

The elf stuck out her tongue and made a farting noise. “Fuck trees,” she said. “ _No_. And I’m not here for a tattoo either.”

“So why _are_ you here?” Dorian asked, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her. “Stealing?”

“I’m not a thief!” the thief said. “Not today, anyway. Someone told me a stuck-up Tevinter mage was giving tattoos and stuff out on the edge of town. I wanted to see if it was true.”

“Well, congratulations,” Dorian said. “You found me. Satisfied?”

“Are you going to kill me now?” the thief asked. Her hand was inching toward the bow strapped to her back. How she got away with carrying that around in public, Dorian had no idea. “I’m warning you, I’m a good shot.”

“Why would I kill you?” Dorian said. 

“You’re a magister,” the thief said. “That’s what you lot do, innit?”

“I’m not a – oh, forget it. I was going to invite you inside out of this wretched weather, but if you’d rather stand out in the rain, that’s your concern.” Dorian turned, intending to return to his wine, but the thief let out a strangled cry. 

“Wait,” she said. When he looked back at her, she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. “No funny business,” she said. “I’ve got a bow and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“I wouldn’t, and besides, you’re not exactly my type,” Dorian said. 

“Don’t like elves?” the thief asked curiously. 

“Elves are fine,” he said. “So long as they’re male.”

The thief’s eyebrows went up at that. “Ah,” she said. “I see how it is. That’s all right, then. I’m a big ol’ lesbian anyway.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sera.”

“Dorian,” he said, shaking her hand. He noticed her giving the small ball of light he’d conjured a suspicious look, and he dismissed it with a flick of his fingers. “Not fond of magic?”

“Not really,” Sera said. “It’s all a bit manky, in my opinion.”

“Charming. Well, I promise I won’t set you on fire if you promise not to steal anything from my apartment. 

“Deal. Your stuff’s probably all rubbish anyway,” she said, looking over the staircase. “This place is a right dump.”

“I’ll have you know I have only the finest,” Dorian said ostentatiously. “And I’ll prove it to you. Would you care for the finest Orlesian vintage I have?”

“I’ll give it a try,” Sera said dubiously, which was how they ended up on the floor of his apartment two hours later, having gone through three bottles of wine and innumerable stories of embarrassing escapades both of them had been involved with. Sera was, apparently, a thief part-time, which she admitted with a complete lack of shame that Dorian admired, and had been raised in Denerim, a city Dorian had visited once and never intended on returning to. 

“It isn’t _that_ bad,” Sera said. “At least they’re not all stuck-up ponces like in Val Royeaux.”

“Well, you know,” Dorian said vaguely. “Orlesians.” 

Sera laughed at that. Somehow, by the end of the night, Dorian had offered her a job, and she had taken it, because as she said, “I’m shit out of luck for money anyway, and the guards here are too good to keep stealing.”

“Just don’t steal from the florist across the street,” Dorian said. “It’s owned by a Qunari.”

Sera perked up. “Oh really? I’ve never seen one up close before.”

“It’s an experience like no other,” Dorian said, thinking of Bull’s distinct smell and the feeling of his tough skin beneath his hands. “I suppose if you wanted to meet him, I could introduce you.”

“Aw, him?” Sera sighed. “Well, you can’t have everything.”

Sera spent the night face down on Dorian’s sofa, drooling into his cushions. In the morning, they agreed not to try to cook and sought out a diner, where Sera poured a frankly appalling amount of syrup on her pancakes and Dorian drank three cups of black coffee. She left around noon, and Dorian returned home to sleep off the rest of his hangover in peace. It wasn’t until he woke up, late in the afternoon, that he discovered she had stolen a red scarf from his dresser. 

 

Sera wasn’t exactly the best receptionist in the world – she had a tendency to run her mouth and swear inappropriately – but she was right about him getting a reputation. In the next couple of weeks he had more bookings than he’d had over the last three months, and he had his hands full just getting the work done, let alone taking appointments and making sure the place was stocked with snacks and lotion. 

“I’m not exactly brilliant at that either, you know,” Sera said when they were looking over the books together and trying to figure out how much money they had brought in. “We need someone for all those numbers and stuff. You’re rolling in it now, you can afford it.”

“I don’t _know_ anyone who’s good at that sort of thing,” Dorian said. He thought for a moment, then sighed and said, “But I suppose I know someone who does.”

Sera tagged along when he went to see Eve at her house, a demure apartment in the heart of downtown. Still, it was ridiculously lavish compared to Dorian’s own living quarters, and judging from Sera’s low obscenity, she was impressed too. Eve came out of the kitchen and embraced Dorian before shaking Sera’s hand and inviting them to sit, have some wine. 

“Well,” Dorian said. “If you insist.”

It took a while to get to the point. Sera had about a hundred questions for Eve, and Eve seemed just as curious about her. By the time they got around to discussing why they were visiting, Dorian was pleasantly tipsy and a little bored by their conversation. He flicked on the television, flipping channels while Eve told Sera about Josephine. There was a rerun of _Swords & Shields_ on, but he caught a glimpse of the Tevinter flag on the news. He flipped back and froze, eyes prickling hot. 

“Dorian,” Eve called. “Sera says you need someone to do your finances?” She paused. “Dorian?”

“Eve,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Oh, Maker.”

“What is it?” she asked, getting to her feet and coming to his side. Dorian nodded to the screen; she turned and read the crawl along the bottom of the newscast: _Felix Alexius, son of Magister Gereon Alexius, dies after long illness_. When she looked back, her eyes were bright. She pulled Dorian into her arms without another word, cradling her head against his chest. “Oh my darling,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Dorian pressed his face into her shoulder and held on tight to her arm, gritting his jaw to keep the grief at bay. _Felix_. 

 

Dorian had no recollection how he got home. He assumed Sera and Eve had something to do with it, but neither of them were there when he woke up in the morning, his pillows wet and eyes red like he had been crying. He didn’t remember crying, which the empty bottles of wine on the floor might explain. He cast a spell on himself to dispel the worst parts of the hangover and spent the day eating bad food and drinking more. Sera had canceled his appointments for the day without asking, which made Dorian wonder what exactly Eve had told her. 

When Dorian had left Tevinter, he had left a number of things behind that he missed dearly. His library for one, though he had taken what he could. His wine collection. His closet, of course; southern fashion just couldn’t compare. 

Felix topped the list. Dorian may not have loved him, not in the way he had adored Rilienus from afar, but Felix had been a friend. He remembered long nights studying with Alexius, only interrupted by Felix arriving to offer respite in the form of conversation or snacks. Felix had been one of the few to not express disapproval at Dorian’s preferences; he had even gone out of his way to find Dorian interested men, at least until Dorian told him to stop. 

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate it,” he had said, “it’s just that you have _dreadful_ taste in men.”

Felix had laughed at that. “What was wrong with the last one? He seemed perfectly nice.”

“He actually _prefers_ ale from the Anderfells. Maker forbid!” Dorian had said

When his parents had thrown him out, Felix had given him a place to stay. When Dorian had fallen in the dire straits of poverty, Felix had wired him money. Dorian had tried to come home when he heard Felix had fallen ill. Felix, of course, wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that Dorian should save his money; he would be fine. 

Dorian hadn’t heard from Felix for a few weeks, but that wasn’t unusual. Felix wasn’t a prolific writer to begin with, and Dorian guessed he was sicker than he let on. But to think he had _died_ – without Dorian getting to say goodbye, or thank him, or tell him about Sera and Eve and the Iron Bull. It was beyond unfair, it was cruel. 

Dorian drank steadily through the afternoon, pacing around his apartment. By dusk, he was ready to tear his own hair out, but he didn’t want to leave, either. Not to see Eve, who would pity him, or Sera, who would ask questions. He just wanted to forget for a while. 

Bull wouldn’t ask questions, he thought. If he showed up on his door, Bull wouldn’t care why. It was a stupid thought, one he would have had sober and then remembered that it was a bad idea. But drunk and tired and exhausted, he decided it was the perfect plan. He jogged across the street and pounded on the door to the flower shop. When there was no immediate answer, he tried the door and found it wasn’t locked, which was surprising. Then again, there _were_ wards set and Dorian supposed the fact that the shop was owned by a Qunari was enough to deter most would-be thieves. He had made it as far as the counter when he heard the thunder of footsteps above him. A moment later, Bull emerged, a giant broadsword half-raised. When he saw it was Dorian, he carefully set it aside before moving toward him. 

“Dorian,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Is your offer still on the table?” Dorian asked, getting to the point. 

Bull didn’t even pause or ask what Dorian meant. He just said, “You changed your mind?” and when Dorian nodded, he smiled, sharp and satisfied like a cat. “Later we’ll figure out a watchword for you,” he said. “For now, let’s keep it simple.”

And with that, he took two swift steps to Dorian, swept Dorian into his arms, and began carrying him up the stairs. Dorian wound his arms around Bull’s neck, feeling faintly ridiculous but strangely better. Bull still smelled the way he remembered musky, with a hint of earth. He wondered what it might taste like, then realized he could find out. He pressed his lips to Bull’s jaw, smiling when Bull growled a little under his breath. 

Upstairs, Bull set Dorian back on his feet and looked him over. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dorian said. He reached out for Bull. “Come here and kiss me already.”

Bull looked slightly suspicious, but he did pull Dorian to him. He kissed like Dorian had suspected: like he was invading a country. Dorian lost himself in it, focusing on the roughness of Bull’s stubble against his chin, the way he held Dorian like he weighed nothing. He had never imagined he would like feeling this helpless, Bull all around him like this. 

“You’ve been drinking,” Bull said against Dorian’s mouth. “I can taste it.”

“What’s your point?” Dorian asked.

“My point is that you don’t know what you’re asking for right now.” Bull bit Dorian’s lower lip, then let it go. “I can give you what you want – when you’re able to ask for it.”

“Bull –”

“Sleep it off, Dorian,” Bull said. “And if you still want it in the morning – you know where to find me.”

 

Dorian awoke in the morning with a pounding headache and the horrible emptiness of grief. Sera was downstairs when he managed to go look, and she had a small bottle of Eve’s hangover cure for him. 

“She wanted to see how you are,” Sera said. “You _are_ all right, aren’t you?”

“No,” Dorian said. “But I will be.” 

He went through his appointments without paying much mind to who or what he was tattooing. The hangover had receded, but the grief had not, and he wondered at himself for having gone to Bull, like that could have helped him. He had learned in Tevinter that sex, enjoyable as it was, didn’t usually solve much of anything. More often than not it was only a distraction, and in the morning there would be regret in addition to the same trouble as before. 

Once the day had ended and Sera had gone home, Dorian steeled his courage and went across the street. Bull was behind the counter, closing up for the day, and he looked wary when Dorian came in, as though he were afraid. 

“Hello,” Dorian said awkwardly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“It’s fine,” Bull said. “Just counting the money.” He closed the cash drawer and stood up. “Wasn’t sure if you’d come by today.”

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night,” Dorian said. “I was not myself. You were quite right to tell me no.”

Bull’s expression became inscrutable all of a sudden. “I’m glad I did.”

“It isn’t that I don’t – I’ve thought of you,” Dorian said, made bold by some unknown power. “But I shouldn’t have put you in that position. You didn’t ask to be – anyway. Thank you, for that.”

Bull gazed at him for a long moment. “What happened?” he asked at last. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something happened to make you come here last night,” Bull said. “And you seem different.” 

Dorian swallowed and cleared his throat. “My friend died.” He saw Bull’s look and shook his head. “No, not – just a friend. But a good one. I didn’t say goodbye, and – now he’s gone.”

Bull glanced back over his shoulder, then seemed to make a decision. He came out from behind the counter and held out his hand. “Come with me,” he said. 

In the dying daylight, Dorian could better see Bull’s apartment, and was surprised to see how homey it was. There were plants everywhere, which wasn’t that surprising, and neither was the massive bed, but the overflowing bookshelf was, as was the plush, indulgent carpet laid over the wood floor. Bull released Dorian’s hand once they were inside and settled on the couch opposite an unlit fireplace. 

“Sit,” Bull said, nodding to the cushion beside him. Dorian cautiously sat down, letting his thigh press against Bull’s, and Bull draped a huge arm around his shoulders. He was hot, and his arm was quite heavy, but the weight was pleasant, comforting in its own way. “What was his name?”

“Felix,” Dorian said, and without quite consciously deciding to, he found himself talking about Felix, his quiet demeanor and thoughtless kindness. He never talked about life in Tevinter if he could help it, except to Eve, who could always manage to pry whatever she wanted out of anyone. He talked to his hands at first, which was how he realized he was crying again. He flushed, embarrassed, and tried to pull away, but Bull wouldn’t let him. 

“I thought Qunari hated this kind of thing,” Dorian said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater and wincing. 

“You aren’t Qunari,” Bull said. “And I’m not much of one these days, either.” He rubbed Dorian’s shoulder encouragingly. “Tell me about the nugs.”

Dorian talked until he was hoarse, even when the stories grew less interesting and more ordinary, like Felix taking him to the market in Minrathous when he was still quite young and sheltered. Bull was a surprisingly good listener, and even though Dorian felt a bit stupid, he did feel better when he finally did run out of words and fell, exhausted, against Bull’s chest. 

“Better?” Bull asked, deep voice rumbling through him. 

“Yes, thank you,” Dorian said. He would probably feel hideously embarrassed about this in the morning, but just then he felt pleasantly exhausted, almost like he’d been thoroughly fucked. He wondered if Bull had done that on purpose. “Sorry to have blubbered all over you.”

“I don’t mind,” Bull said. “My door’s open.”

He was being so _kind_. Dorian twisted so he could look up into Bull’s face, but didn’t see any trace of mockery. For a moment, Dorian weighed his options; then he moved so that he was straddling Bull’s lap and looking down at him. 

“Will you?” Dorian asked. “Tonight?”

Bull rested one huge hand on Dorian’s back. “I don’t know if you’re –”

“There’s never going to be a perfect time,” Dorian said. “I know what I want, Bull.” He cupped Bull’s stubbled cheeks and leaned in. “If your offer still stands.”

“Yes,” Bull said quietly, and then he was kissing Dorian, pulling him in with one powerful hand. 

They kissed lazily for what felt like hours, though the light didn’t change much, so it couldn’t have been that long. Dorian was hard, but it didn’t feel particularly urgent; he was content to be here, letting Bull take care of him, and that was odd, really. Dorian liked to think he could take care of himself. It should have frightened him, but that was why he had come, hadn’t it? Sex might not solve anything, but that wasn’t really what was being offered here, he didn’t think. 

So Bull took him to bed; and Dorian let him. 

 

After Bull had pulled Dorian over the edge of pleasure, after Dorian had knelt between Bull’s thighs and brought him off with his mouth, showing off a little bit, Bull pulled Dorian into his arms and pet his back until Dorian grew tired. He pressed his mouth to the side of Bull’s absurdly large pectoral, smiling when Bull moved minutely. 

“Ticklish?” he asked, not moving his mouth. 

“Of course not,” Bull said, twitching slightly. 

“Last night,” Dorian said after a moment, “you said something about later. Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Bull said without a trace of self-consciousness or regret. “I did. Is that a problem?”

“No,” Dorian said. “I suppose I’m just surprised, is all. I can’t imagine why you would want to. Aside from how I’m devilishly attractive.”

“There is that,” Bull said. “I like you. You’re interesting.”

Dorian waited, but it seemed there was no further explanation forthcoming. “Simple as that?”

“Yeah.” Bull dragged a finger down Dorian’s spine, light but enough to send a pleasant shudder through him. “Go to sleep. We both have to be up in the morning.”

“Ugh, mornings,” Dorian muttered, but he let himself close his eyes and drift off, for the moment not overwhelmed with sadness and grief. It would return, he knew; but perhaps not just yet. 

 

It was a strange kind of night, the kind where wakefulness came soft-footed and light. Dorian woke with sun on his face and Bull awake beside him, his bulk a warm and steady counterpoint to the breeze flowing through the window. Dorian hadn’t slept in a bed with someone in ages. He had forgotten how pleasant it was to wake up and know there was another person there.

“Do you have appointments today?” Bull asked. 

Dorian wondered how Bull had known he was awake, but decided not to ask. “Not until later,” he said. “Did you have plans?”

“Krem can open the shop,” Bull said. “Otherwise…” He ran his knuckle down Dorian’s bare arm, and when Dorian craned his neck to look up at him, he was smirking. 

“Yes, all right,” Dorian said. “I suppose I can be prevailed upon to have sex with you.”

“Watchword?” Bull asked, smirk slowly vanishing. Dorian remembered, so long ago it seemed, Bull murmuring, _lay you bare for me to conquer_ , and shivered. 

“Maleficar,” he said. He shifted so he was sprawled out beneath Bull’s assessing gaze. “And you?”

“Katoh.” Bull took Dorian’s wrist in his hand – took both his wrists in one hand – and Dorian shivered again, pleasurably taut with anticipation. “This is all right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dorian breathed, arching up as Bull moved to kneel over him. “Perfect.” 

Bull was not particularly rough with him, just kept Dorian still with his hands as he stroked Dorian to full hardness. He watched Dorian intently the entire time, and Dorian, normally shameless as they came, kept finding his gaze sliding away, not sure how to interpret Bull’s expression. Bull released his grip on Dorian’s cock to nudge at his chin. 

“Look at me, Dorian,” he said, voice a low rumble. “I want to see your face.” 

And Dorian found himself obeying. Bull smiled before leaning down to kiss him, and Dorian strained up against Bull’s grip, wanting to get his hands on him, but Bull stilled him with a slight tightening of his grip on Dorian’s wrists. His hand continued moving steadily on Dorian’s cock, and after a moment, Dorian allowed himself to believe that he was safe here. He sank into the pleasure Bull was wringing from him with every touch, and forgot to worry about anything else

When he came, it seemed to happen suddenly. His mouth fell open, his hands spasming under Bull’s grip, and he heard what sounded like the _whoosh_ of a fire starting. Bull pulled back abruptly, though he didn’t take his hand off Dorian’s cock. He dragged his thumb over the head as he looked at something behind Dorian’s head. 

“You set the curtains on fire,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t know mages could do that.”

“Did I?” Dorian craned his neck and saw, yes, the curtains smoking slightly. “Well, they were hideous.”

“I wonder what you would do if I fucked you,” Bull said idly. Dorian twitched at the thought – Bull was so _big_ – and Bull grinned. “Like that idea?”

“I’d like it better if you didn’t just talk about it,” Dorian said, sitting up. He extinguished the flames and then turned onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs. He knew he looked good like this, and Bull’s swift inhale of breath confirmed that he was not unaffected. 

“Greedy boy,” Bull said teasingly, running his hand along Dorian’s bare hip. “All right.”

Dorian opened himself up under Bull’s gaze, glancing back over his shoulder every so often to find Bull watching him hungrily. When Bull at last moved Dorian’s hand away and directed him to hold onto the headboard, Dorian bit his lip and dropped his head. Bull was huge, but he was slow about it, taking his time until Dorian huffed out a breath and began pushing back. 

“Ready, I see,” Bull said, letting his huge hands settle on Dorian’s hips. “Very well.” And then he began to fuck Dorian in earnest. 

Dorian was not so young that he had recovered his arousal so quickly, but the drag of Bull inside him was pleasurable nonetheless. Bull was not quiet, vocal about how Dorian felt around him, and Dorian was distantly dismayed at the wanton moans he was making. It wouldn’t do to have Bull get an inflated ego about his sexual prowess, but then, Dorian thought wryly, perhaps it was a little late for that. He arched into him, and Bull bit his shoulderblade, right at the edge, as he came hot inside him. 

“Well,” Dorian said once they had separated. He laid flat on his back, feeling Bull’s come on his thighs. “That was –”

“Spectacular,” Bull said. He was stroking his softening cock absently, watching Dorian with a fond look. “Next time I’d like to tie you up, I think.”

“Oh,” Dorian said, startled by the overwhelming desire that welled up in him at that. “I’d like that, I think.”

“We’ll make a list,” Bull said. “That’s the way to do it.” 

“A list,” Dorian echoed. “You know how to read?”

Bull laughed instead of taking offense. He pulled Dorian over to him and kissed him thoroughly before getting out of bed. “You’d be surprised what I know.”

“Well, I have to admit the flowers are a surprise,” Dorian said, reaching over to rub the leaves of the plant beside the bed between his thumb and forefinger. “Seems an odd occupation for a Qunari.”

“Do you know the Ben Hassrath?” Bull asked, looking over his shoulder as he washed his hands at his sink. When Dorian nodded, Bull’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “So you know what kind of work they do.”

“Spying,” said Dorian. 

“Among other things. I worked as one for a long time. That’s how I got my boys, originally. I had autonomy, and they had their intel. For a long time, it worked.”

“But?” Dorian prompted when Bull paused. 

“But,” Bull agreed. He dried his hands off and came to sit back on the edge of the bed. “We came to an impasse. I had to choose between following orders or letting Krem and my boys die. I couldn’t do that. So I became Tal Vashoth and lost my job, all in one afternoon. For a while, we were mercenaries, but as much as I like fighting and putting the fear of death into my enemies, it wasn’t the same. We came to Skyhold, and I wanted to do something…productive. Life-giving, for once. We still take jobs every now and then,” he added. “But it’s nice to have this to come home to.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, leaning over to smell the blooms. Bull ran a finger down his back, and Dorian knew he was looking at the tattooed designs that ran down his spine. He waited, but Bull didn’t ask, just ran his finger, then his nail over the scars and the tattoos until Dorian was shivering and not from cold. 

“Unless you’ve the time for another round, you should stop,” Dorian said tartly, turning to scowl up at Bull. “You tease.”

“I’m the tease?” Bull asked, raising his eyebrows. “And what are you?”

“Hmph.” Dorian threw the sheets away from himself and rose to his feet. “I suppose we ought to get to work.”

“Come by any time,” Bull said. He looked Dorian up and down and smirked. Dorian lifted his chin and smiled before leaning down to get his clothes, being sure Bull got a good view the entire time. The pained noise Bull made was very satisfying. 

As Bull had said, Krem had opened the shop downstairs and was speaking to a thin, pale boy in a huge hat. When Dorian passed, Krem caught his eye and winked. 

“Have fun?” Krem asked. Dorian tossed his head and smiled smugly before leaving, hearing Krem burst into laughter behind him. 

Sera was sitting on the steps smoking when Dorian arrived, and she gave Dorian a very knowing look. “Those are the clothes you were wearing yesterday,” she said. 

“You wear the same clothes every day,” Dorian said, unlocking the shop. 

“That’s because I don’t _have_ anything else,” Sera said. She followed him inside and took her place behind the desk. “Go change. You reek.”

“Charming,” Dorian said. Privately, he agreed, so he went upstairs to wash up and put on something fresh. He took a moment to look at his reflection, not purely out of vanity for once. In the mirror, he looked tired, but not as awful as he had the day before. Part of him felt guilty knowing Felix had just died; but he wouldn’t have asked Dorian to mourn him endlessly, would have said that it was in the Maker’s plan. Dorian didn’t know if he believed that much, but he thought perhaps he could grieve and still have moments of joy. 

It was a slow day, aside from his afternoon appointment with a heavily pierced woman named Isabela. She was chatty and exactly the kind of raunchy Sera liked. They got on so well that after Isabela was done, she invited Sera out to drink with her, and Dorian was left alone in the shop to stare across the street at the dark shadow of Bull against the flowers. 

Around sunset, Dorian gave up on watching and went to knock on the door. Bull answered, smiling, and drew him inside without another word. 

 

“The scars on my back,” Dorian said that night as they lay in bed, “they’re from – a blood magic ritual.”

Bull didn’t say anything, just watched him. Dorian closed his eyes tightly and breathed out slowly. “I am my parents’ only child. They married specifically to produce a child of the most magical ability who might carry on their bloodlines. And they got me.

“So much hard work, so much _breeding_ couldn’t be allowed to go to waste. When my father learned of my inclinations, he attempted to change them. That was when I left Tevinter.” He spat out the word, hating the taste of it. “What he would think to see me now, in bed with a Qunari, I shudder to think.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Bull asked. “To rebel?”

“There are easier ways to rebel,” Dorian said. “I left, after all. And he never did manage to change me.” 

“For that, I have to say I am grateful,” Bull said. 

“This doesn’t mean I like you, of course,” Dorian said. “You mustn’t think that.”

“Of course not,” Bull said. He drew Dorian against his side. “I’d never make that mistake.”

After that, Dorian began to spend most nights at Bull’s. He became so accustomed to it that he did not even think about how altered his life had become until he arrived home one morning after several weeks to find Eve leaning on the counter talking to Sera. Eve met his eyes and raised her eyebrows, straightening up. 

“And where have you been, dear?” she asked sweetly, holding out her hand. Dorian took it and kissed her knuckles. 

“You look radiant today, Eve,” he said. “How is the campaign going?”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Eve said. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Did I see you coming from the florist’s shop?”

“I hardly see that it’s any of your business,” Dorian sniffed, trying to pull away. “Eve –” 

“I haven’t seen you since –” She hesitated and finally released his hand. “How are you? I was worried.”

“I’m quite all right,” said Dorian, and he was surprised to realize he meant it. “I apologize if you’ve been waiting.”

“It is nothing,” Eve said. “Only I wanted to ask you to come to the party Josephine is throwing on election night. Bull is invited too, of course.”

“I don’t know why you’d say such a thing,” Dorian said, ignoring her smile. “I suppose I shall be there. Will you tell me when and where?” 

“Oi, what am I?” Sera asked, poking Eve in the shoulder. “What about me?”

“Of course you’re invited, Sera,” said Eve. “It’s at Josephine’s estate on the seventeenth.” She tapped Dorian on the chest and raised her eyebrows. “I expect you to be there.” 

“You know I can’t resist a party,” Dorian said, and Eve beamed. 

 

“This was a terrible idea,” Dorian said, standing with Bull in the doorway to Josephine’s ballroom. “You’re not even wearing a shirt.”

“No,” Bull agreed, settling his wide hand at the base of Dorian’s neck. “Come, Dorian. Your friends are waiting.” 

Dorian took a breath and entered the ballroom, Bull at his side, and let the herald announce them. Eve looked up from where she stood beside Josephine, resplendent in vivid blue mage robes, and waved as though she weren’t a noblewoman. She was so unguarded sometimes, it really was remarkable that she had gone into politics. 

“Josie, you know Dorian, I know, but have you met The Iron Bull?” Eve asked when they approached. “He owns the flower shop by Dorian.”

“Ah, yes, Leliana has mentioned that,” Josephine, smiling charmingly up at Bull. “We met briefly, did we not?”

“I believe so, milady,” Bull said. He had grown rather deferential; it was adorable. “I provided the flowers for Lady Vivienne’s party.”

Josephine asked Bull about his flowers, and Dorian found his attention wandering as Bull answered, the two of them going far more into depth than he could have imagined. Eve caught his eye and drew him to the side, her hand on his elbow. 

“So you brought him,” Eve said, smiling knowingly. “And you seem happy.”

“Please don’t try to analyze me, darling, I’d like us to remain friends.” Dorian flagged down a waiter and took two glasses of sparkling wine. “To your campaign. May you soundly trounce your opponents.”

“Very well,” Eve said, accepting a glass and clinking it against Dorian’s. “I’ll drink to that.” 

They rejoined their companions just as there was a small commotion at the entrance to the ballroom. Josephine broke off suddenly to say, “Oh my goodness, is that the Champion?”

They all turned and sure enough, a tall, strong-looking woman with jet dark hair and red robes was standing at the entrance. Eve started laughing, holding onto Josephine’s arm for support.

“Oh my,” she said. “Has Cassandra spotted her yet? She very well might cry.”

Dorian and Bull took their leave of their hosts in order to take advantage of the wine. Sera and her friend Isabela were sneaking around and giggling in a way that boded ill for everyone, and Dorian thought it best to steer clear of them in case Sera took it in her head to play a prank. He drew Bull out to one of the balconies that overlooked Skyhold and leaned back on the rail, looking up at the sky. 

“I never liked parties in Tevinter,” Dorian said. “There was always a danger of a bloody murder. This is nice, though.”

“Occasionally we were asked to attend parties as part of our work,” Bull said. “We were usually the cause of the bloody murder.” He laughed heartily, draping his arm around Dorian’s waist. “Sometimes I miss the fighting.”

“Yes, nothing like a battle,” Dorian said dryly. 

“You’d probably be good at it, with your fire spells,” Bull said. “I’d like to see it. You ablaze with the light of a good fight.” 

“You have very strange fetishes,” Dorian said, stroking his hand against Bull’s bare chest. He let a spark jump from his finger, and Bull twitched. “Do you wish to stay any longer?”

“I don’t know,” Bull said. “I thought we were here to – what’s the word – mingle?”

“Oh, please,” said Dorian. Bull grinned and tugged Dorian up against him. “Ah, I see. You mean that kind of mingling.”

“There was a coat closet in the front entrance,” Bull said. 

Dorian weighed the half hour it would take to return home against the thrill of having Bull now, while the party went on, inches away from them. “Very well,” he said haughtily. “I suppose that is acceptable.”

And when Josephine found them emerging from the closet, probably looking distinctly worse for wear, she only sighed and said, “As long as you did not ruin any of my sister’s coats. She would be furious.”

“I make no promises,” Dorian said, grinning, as Bull swept him out the door. “We probably should have stayed until the election results are announced,” he remarked to Bull as they hailed a taxi. 

“I’m sure we’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Bull said. “For now I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, preening slightly, “attend to me.”

Bull growled, low in his throat, and pulled Dorian up against him. “Oh,” he said, “I will,” and Dorian beamed up at him as in the house behind them, a cheer went up, loud enough to hear from the steps.


End file.
